


Nzumbi

by LostInTheThicket



Category: Shadowrun
Genre: Action/Adventure, Cyberpunk, Emotional Baggage, Enemies to Friends, Gen, My First Work in This Fandom, No Beta, Original Character-centric, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Swords & Sorcery, Violence, We Die Like Men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 15:27:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19478740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostInTheThicket/pseuds/LostInTheThicket
Summary: In the streets of Seattle, a lone runner leaves the comfort of the wrestling ring to disappear in the shadows. His mind wracked with sorrow and guilt after a grave tragedy, he channels his anger to overcome a nigh-insurmountable foe and their overwhelming influence. After a violent mission, his next job is to enlist the help of a loud-mouthed but talented woman.Unbeknownst to them, however, the shadows are rife with monsters...waiting to pull them under.Experience a part of the story of B.J. Littlefoot, my player character in my Shadowrun game (currently on hiatus - the game, not the story).





	Nzumbi

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the characters and moments you'll experience were actually created by my amazing GM, Magpie. I hope I can showcase a portion of her world and entice you lovelies with a damn good story that emphasizes it.
> 
> Lemme know what you think. <3

_"The brighter the light, the darker the shadow."_ \- Carl Jung

* * *

**_One_**. **_Two. Three._**

The sound of the bell rang out, its tone quick but profound. For the crowd huddled in the RPW Arena, it was the end to a thrilling championship match between RPW’s biggest stars: the Lonestar Runner and the House, Samuel Oskar.

But in the end, one wrestler reigned supreme as Samuel placed his foot delicately on the Lonestar Runner's chest.

The people in the crowd rose to their feet, highlighting their ‘applause’ with a chorus of boos despite some cheers being heard. A rowdy dwarf hurled a half-eaten soybar into the ring in protest, immediately followed by a wave of regret as she was promptly escorted out by two muscly troll guards. "Ugh, _so_ not fair! Frag!"

The lights and the AR display transformed into a swirling array of colours and patterns, coupled with a spotlight centred at the middle of the ring. As his voice cut through the noise of the arena, the announcer made the official call.

“Your winner and _still_ the RPW World Heavyweight Champion! ‘The House’ Samuel Oskar!”

The referee accentuated the win as he raised Oskar’s arm up high. But as the official raised his hands, all the man behind the persona, **B.J. Littlefoot** , could see were people wearing imaginary masks as the jeers seemingly amplified.

Despite the jeers, B.J.’s deep frown was real; it was a kernel of truth behind the carefully crafted façade of his wrestling persona. To him, it didn’t matter whether members of the audience came from the Barrens, Bellevue, or even in the downtown core. To them, it seemed like he was a human placebo effect.

He glared at the crowd, darting his eyes to scan the swath of metahumans and humans, going through his own moment of cynical reflection.

 _You guys in Seattle are all the same,_ B.J. thought, his eyes perusing the crowd.

He suddenly laid his eyes on a woman, sitting in a place to the right of the ring. Giving him a middle finger, her hairstyle was wild and untamed, its vibrant hues like a rainbow, emphasized by her equally colourful tattoos and an expression of dramatic anger. B.J. paused, his stare lingering on her as she hesitated, staring back at him.

_You hide behind your so-called ‘normal lives’, pretending to look unique._

Despite it being a few minutes, it seemed like a moment frozen in time while they glared at each other. B.J. could make out the short, pointed ears on the young woman, identifying her as an elf.

 _You watch trid flicks to make sure your lives seem alright, conversing with others trying to keep up your disguises under the megacorps._ _But deep down inside, human or not, you’re miserable._ B.J. scoffed. _I don’t even blame y’all. If we switched places, I’d be giving you the finger, too._

As he stepped out of the ring and landed on the ground, B.J. approached the rainbow-haired elven girl before he flashed a shit-eating grin her way. He watched her mimic his smile in sarcastic fashion, raising both of her middle fingers towards him.

“Hope you enjoyed the show,” B.J. said, maintaining his persona’s smarmy ego and dramatic pronounciation. “I _do_ appreciate your…support, _mon amie._ ”

The girl scoffed, replying in kind. She had a British accent, somewhat posh but not posh at the same time. “Shut your fraggin’ face, drek-for-brains!” she sneered, her tone sickeningly sweet.

 _Sassy as always._ With a bow and a cheeky expression, B.J. left the woman’s presence with a flourish as he made his way to the back, his title firmly around his waist.

However, tonight was a similar night, one that shared a common feeling after his most recent matches…

B.J. was ill – physically and emotionally speaking.

Despite the jeers of the audience, he would normally feel happy hearing his theme song: _The River_ by Glock-50 and Andrea Frost. A song with a pulsating beat coupled with hard, in-your-face raps and a hauntingly beautiful chorus, it was a weird but defining sound for him – a song that made him somewhat famous in Seattle.

But in spite of the crowd singing it and their voices belting the chorus word-for-word, B.J. felt different listening to his theme.

He felt frozen, almost as if he was helpless and numb in a deepweed-induced trance. He shuffled his feet with a grim expression on his face, trying not to cough or show weakness before he disappeared behind the curtains.

“Fuck me,” B.J murmured. His body language changed, slumped over and defeated. He tried to clear his throat, feeling the lump remain. Shaking his head, he suddenly heard a loud Southern accent coming from afar.

“Banks! Stay right there!”

B.J. looked up to see his promoter walking up to him. He scanned the middle-aged human, seeing his usually pristine and proper three-piece suit. Its colour was as white as the man’s dazzling smile, somewhat hidden behind his beard, bushy yet majestic. Recognizing him, B.J. nodded to him.

“Hey, Danny,” he said. “Enjoyed the match tonight?”

With the good old wink-and-the-gun, a chuckle escaped the lips of Dan ‘Deuces’ Wilde.

“You damn right I did!” Dan tapped B.J.’s back, wiping the sweat off of one of his employees. “There he is! Sam Oskar, my number-one heel!”

“That’s me, alright.” B.J. suddenly placed his hand over his stomach, feeling the room spin. “Sorry. I—"

“Hey, don’t die on me, now! You’re my best wrestler.”

Removing his cowboy hat, Dan waved it near B.J.’s face, referring to him through his alternate ego. His _alternate_ alternate ego. “Shit, Robbie. You hungover or something? You look like the time you dealt with those young dreks at the meet n’ greet.”

With a feeble chuckle, B.J. raised his eyebrows. “Oh, that small poser gang pissing the rest of the boys off? Heh.” He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll live.”

“Good.” Danny frowned. “You know what? You had a damn good match tonight. Your nuyen’s comin’ to ya in a couple of days. Just head to the back, relax, and I’ll see you soon.” He pointed at B.J. “You deserve a bit of time off.”

As B.J. nodded, he staggered towards the locker room, still hearing Andrea’s voice crooning over the heckling audience. His mind was frazzled, feeling his stomach churn, causing his body to force whatever wanted out of him out as soon as possible.

From the locker room, the sounds outside rung hollow as he browsed the stuffy bathroom that he quickly locked himself in. Despite it looking a few shades away from abysmal, B.J. started to hurl, coughing up spittle and small chunks of his breakfast.

It was at that moment he saw something quite grotesque: a small piece of brain matter lodged in his dreadlocks.

 _Fuck._ B.J. shook his head, flushing it and his vomit down the toilet. _Note to self: no fast-and-furious runs for a while. Thanks for the ‘milk run’, Powder._

And in that moment, nestled in his rather rotten hideout, all he thought about was her.

It was hard for B.J. to ignore, even during the days he was at 100%. He thought about her soft voice; the way she used to sing old songs of their favourite band, Concrete Dreams; how her light-blue eyes seemed to twinkle every time he surprised her with tickets, feeling her warm embrace as she held him close.

Quiet, alone, and sorrowful, B.J. thought about Lumi.

 _Lumi,_ B.J. pondered, taking the time to wait for footsteps to shuffle away from the bathroom. _You’re still in my mind. …Aren’t you,_ _ma chérie_ _?_

B.J. stared at himself in the mirror; cleaning his dreadlocks and goatee, his expression changed into one of steadfast determination. With no meet-and-greet sessions scheduled for tonight, his mind was clear enough to jostle his mental state back to normal.

With his day job over, he was now focused on the task at hand.

Saying his goodbyes to Dan and the rest, B.J called it early, heading out into the cool Seattle night as he drove to his apartment on his Yamaha Growler. Weaving through petty squabbles with gangs and the usual noise in Seattle, it was a quick trip. As he quickly set his things off to the side and prepared for the rest of the night, B.J. changed. Despite the fever and his personal issues, he still had another job to do.

After all, when the shadows were at their thickest, he was there.

B.J. peeked through the window, moving thick curtains off to the side. _The coast is clear._

He gathered his sword and armoured jacket, brushing his hand over one of the sleeves to reveal a sewn-in Leviathan commlink. It didn’t take long before he connected with a mysterious figure, highlighted by a holographic screen showing a thin line.

“…I’m ready, Powder,” B.J. said, his tone cold and forthright.

All he saw on the screen was the line moving, coupled by a single, soft-spoken feminine voice…

“You’re early, L.J. Good. One more run and who knows? ...Gables might contact you directly.”


End file.
